Disassociating in Central Park

By Alessandra DeAngelis

In terms of comfort, 

It was just shy of “brisk” spring, 

And I had goosebumps.

 

But it didn’t matter,

Not really, since the sun 

Was a cascade 

 

That trickled through tree 

Branches; soaking through clothes and 

Going up noses. 

 

I let it fill me, 

Clogging the back of my throat 

Like cotton, bad news. 

 

White light traveling,

Bursting my veins, splitting through 

Bone, sinew, and skin, 

 

Until there’s nothing.

No corpse, ash, or fine vapor,

Just absence of what was.

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